


the prettiest little cunt

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (example 3294 of me being bad at summaries), A very vague sense of 'teaching' that is used as justification for doing dirty, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Teasing, tied up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 01:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16692601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Petyr wants to correct Sansa's view on the beauty of her cunt.





	the prettiest little cunt

**Author's Note:**

> [Random idea my brain was writing one night instead of sleeping. If anything this is more an apology for not having written anything in like…forever, and for that I'm sorry!! I hope this at least warms a bit of the cold of y'all's sinful souls ;) 
> 
> Started this on the plane back from vacation and only now got around to finishing it lol. Enjoy!]

           “You don't think it's pretty?”

           Sansa couldn't clamp her mouth shut tight enough, her teeth scraping against each other. At some point she would remember to watch what she said around him. Like the time she (jokingly) offered to suck him off on the dark movie theater. He wouldn't let her leave until she did, and fear at being caught delayed the salty taste of his come until the credits. But it was difficult when he just  _ knew  _ her in ways other people didn't. The fact that Sansa got turned on enough blowing him in the dark in public that he took care of her in his car being they left the parking structure. And many many other unrestrained comments leading to things less savory than even  _ that.  _

           Right now, especially, it was rather difficult to think before she spoke when he had one hand tangled in her hair and the other beneath her shirt toying with her nipples. 

           Petyr stole a kiss before tugging on her hands in a silent, “Come.” She reluctantly followed. 

           He pulled her up the stairs of his house, the rooms echoing silence in their ascent. Sansa couldn't help but look into each of them as they passed, however, expecting to see an almost mirror of herself staring back with shock and resentment. 

           It wasn't every day Sansa found herself in the arms of a married man. Though that was the lesser of the scandals given that he was married to  _ her aunt _ . 

           Sansa guessed at the reason behind it. Aunt Lysa wasn't a stellar example of a  _ good person _ . She was, however, loaded, a fact that brought suitor after suitor to her door. Sansa expected her aunt to remain a widow, even as she opened the door to get another suitor asking for Lysa's hand in marriage. 

           Except that was  _ this  _ man. And it didn't take an idiot to know Lysa's newest beau (and husband) would find his eyes wandering onto her instead. Lysa was, as Petyr mentioned in unloving terms, a special kind of idiot.

           Petyr pushed open the large doors to the master bedroom. It spared no expense, taking up the whole of the third floor, with windows on each wall overlooking the acres of gardens and trees. Sansa was in here sporadically, and only short enough for her scent to wash away with the mountain breeze. Petyr (for loving Sansa) was a bit of an idiot too, but at least he was careful to cover his tracks. 

           Petyr placed a laughably chaste kiss to the back of Sansa's hand before letting her go at the threshold, rummaging into the closet for a few moments. He returned, heaving a tall, narrow mirror. In reply to her confusion (which she knew was evident on her face) Petyr offered her only a wink. 

           He hooked a chair at the desk in the corner with his foot on his way to the other side of the bedroom. Between the mirror and kicking the chair, Sansa thought him mad. Or,  _ madder  _ than normal. (Though, it was madness when he first met her wasn't it? And her own madness matched, having taken his proffered hand first and his lips second, with Lysa in the house capable of catching them only spurring the kiss deeper).

           Petyr set the mirror against an empty expanse of wall, careful of the angle so it wouldn't slip against the hardwood. The chair followed, placed barely a yard from the mirror. He surveyed the distance, scooting the chair an inch back. Satisfied with his work, Petyr turned to her, gently tapping the seat of the chair expectantly. 

           Realization — what he meant to do to her — had Sansa standing frozen at the doorway. 

           “What?” Petyr asked, a mocking tone to his question. He leaned against the chair, one hand tracing the gentle curve of its back. Long, nimble fingers, oh too expert at knowing just  _ where  _ to touch and  _ how.  _ Sansa shivered. “It's only a chair, sweetling. You've sat on me before.”

           Sansa's toes curled at the memories. She felt a flush in her face (and not from having her breasts fondled not five minutes ago). She ignored his hair. “Do you mean to…?” She began, though she didn't know  _ why  _ she was asking. Clarification? It wasn't like Petyr was vague or mysterious when it came to the subject of sex. It was, Sansa thought, something she liked about him. 

           Taking things she gave, and greedily. And (of course, as the gentleman he was) ensuring Sansa was never left wanting for an orgasm. 

           Petyr's smile crooked into the same line of mischievous intent as it always did when he feigned innocence. He was a wonderful liar — how else did he keep Sansa a secret from his  _ wife and child  _ for so long? — but he was terrible in hiding his lust. Sansa wondered if it was her that brought it out. (It must be, even if it was a self-flagellating thought). His words drawled in the air, “Why, what do you think I mean to do, sweetling?”

           He thrilled in this. It was obvious the first time he teased her breasts: drawing out the agony of her own desire until Sansa asked (or more accurately  _ begged _ ) for him, for more. (She also learned he had a particular thing for the word  _ fuck,  _ especially when it came from her mouth).

           Sansa gnawed on her lower lip. She'd be a liar to say she wasn't the least bit turned on right now, and not because of the fondling downstairs. It was effort not to clamp her thighs together — no use stoking the flame of Petyr's ego. “I think you mean to...teach me something,” she said finally, as vague as possible. Sometimes Sansa added a  _ Sir _ at the end. Now  _ that  _ was something Petyr definitely had a particular thing for. 

           “Something?” he replied. He went so far as to rub his chin in contemplation. “Something like…?”

_ Gods damn him.  _ “Something like...how pretty my, um, cunt is.”

           Like the word  _ fuck _ , Petyr's grin grew with the way  _ cunt _ fell from Sansa's lips. 

           “I only mean to help correct a flawed opinion of yours,” he clarified. His fingers all the while continued to follow the intricate carving on the back, motions neither he nor Sansa ignored. There was an elegant bit of knotwork, and Petyr wasn’t at all shy circling it round and round like he’d done her clit a hundred times. Sansa pressed her toes against the floor in a vain attempt to control her body.

           “I just don’t, um, understand why it’s a thing that needs correcting.”

           Petyr (ever the performer) looked taken aback. “Oh, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa… The fact alone that there’s a part of you that you  _ hate _ is reason enough.” 

           “But it’s just my c—"

           “And who else to change your view than someone who  _ does _ love your lovely cunt?” he interrupted, ignoring her. “Cocks are, well, something to be revered — or so our world thinks. Why else do we spin in revolutions of dicks?” It was hypothetical. She thought. And slightly off-topic. Nevertheless, Petyr went on. “Still, it's the cunt that holds all the power. Everyone knows that, and everyone wants to pretend like they don’t. Honestly, people are ashamed to admit how much power women have over the world. And they want you to be ashamed of your cunts, else every world leader and person with power wouldn’t have a dick on one side and a stick far up their ass on the other.”

           “I…” Sansa began, only she had absolutely no idea how to respond.

           “Not to mention, there's simply no need to be ashamed of what you have, sweetling. Least of all something so beautiful and revered that it would bring both the smallest and largest men and women to their knees just for a taste, let alone a smell.”

           So that was his approach this time (at least, from what Sansa could parse. It wasn’t the first tirade on cocks and cunts Petyr gave). A  _ lesson _ , on empowerment? On loving her cunt in the same consumed way that Petyr did? Something like that.

           But a  _ lesson _ was as familiar to them as hiding in the shadows of the house for a kiss. It was the same guise he used when he promised to make her irresistible to the boys she fawned over. How else was Sansa supposed to hook them and keep them if the last ‘proper’ experience she had was when she was thirteen? And with a boy who’s voice squeaked whenever he said her name. Petyr promised to make her better at all the ways of love (romantic and (especially) sexual). 

           The problem was, in the end, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to end their lessons. 

           Again like a moth to flame, Sansa approached him on unsteady legs. 

           Petyr's smile grew infinitesimally wider with each step. One hand outstretched, he gently helped her into the chair as though this was dinner at one of King’s Landings finest restaurants, and not a lesson in sex. 

_ I suppose it's dinner for one _ . Sansa bit her lip to keep from smiling. 

           Petyr kissed her a silent  _ Good job _ on the top of her head before moving to the other side of the room. Sansa stared at her reflection for a moment, her gaze finding more interest in the man who was rifling through drawers. He moved to a second dresser, opening one drawer then a second before finding what he was looking for with a quiet “A-ha.” Sansa watched his reflection return with a handful of scarves. Silk scarves, and ones meant for a woman. 

           For his wife. 

           Sansa reminded herself the sort of woman Petyr had married, and felt just a smidge less guilty at the prospect of using her scarves for a lesson in sex. Obviously. What else would they be for? 

           “Before we begin,” Petyr began, draping the armful of silks across her bare legs. The skirt she had picked for today was short enough to keep Petyr's attention on her thighs during their date earlier, but long enough he couldn’t see anything without an intervention with his fingers. Now, sitting down, it did the bare minimum at making sure she was  _ decent.  _ Petyr had intentionally laid the scarves as low on bare thighs as possible, she knew. He loved her legs; especially the place where they met. “I think this would be far more enjoyable were you to give in entirely.”

           Sansa watched him kneel in front of her, his head (conveniently) level with her thighs. He placed his hands on her knees. So easily he could pry her legs apart — it wasn't like Sansa was going to keep things from him anyways, not when Petyr had shown time and again what he knew. And gods did he know a lot. 

           “Is it…? Are you sure?” Sansa licked her lips.

           “Trust me, sweetling.” Petyr stared up at her, but it was an effort to keep her gaze focused on his. What with those damned fingers lazing about along the inside of her knees, touches softer than the kisses he would steal when they thought no one else was looking. 

           And definitely softer than the ones he enjoyed giving when Sansa was pulling his hair and crying his name. 

           Her voice was soft, “I do.” 

           “I've yet to lead you wrong,” Petyr added, leaning in for a kiss on top of her knee. Like a butterfly’s fluttering wings.

           “I  _ do _ ,” she repeated, emphasizing her voice. “I trust you Petyr.”  _ Way more than I even should _ . Sansa ruffled one hand through the tangle of his greying hair (a tangle because her fingers were lost in them downstairs. He was handsome when his curls were slicked back; but there was an almost charming appearance when his hair was disheveled).

           With a smile, he nodded. 

           Slowly, Petyr pried her legs apart as far as the chair would allow. His eyes lingered beneath the shadow of her skirt, the fabric of which was shifting higher until it was almost a pointless piece of clothing. She thought she felt his fingers twitch with the idea of  _ fuck it _ and diving straight into her. 

           With greater restraint than she had, Petyr's hands trailed down her knees. They slid around and down her calves, and circled her ankles. With a gentle tug of each, Petyr positioned them flush with the chair’s legs. Sansa watched him as he strapped her ankles to the chair, one by one, with simultaneous precision and care. The silk was as soft as his touch, as his kiss had been.

           It was whiplash: how quickly Petyr could go from soft, lingering touches that made her heart flutter with the million daydreams of their future; to the  _ animalistic _ way he devoured her body with his, both of them covered in sweat and come, absorbing endless strings of swears and groans and sighs of release. 

           And yet, Sansa wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

           A question fell from her lips — “Would you like to tie me up in the future?” — before she could reign it back. 

           The hands at her ankles froze. Petyr didn't respond in the first heartbeat or the fifth, though the silence alone was an answer louder than words. That, and the blackness that glanced up at her said just as much as the prominent shape of his cock against his trousers. 

           Sansa licked her lips in the best impression of innocence, thrilling when Petyr's eyes shifted completely black during the sixth heartbeat. By the tenth, he reluctantly (or more perhaps  _ eagerly _ ) continued tying her down.

_ Gods, what am I doing _ .

           She knew. And maybe from that very first glance all those secret rendezvous ago, she had always known. 

           Petyr lifted himself and grabbed hold of her wrists, setting them flat against the arm rests before applying the same careful binding. The scarves were soft and the knots secure, and her hands and feet hadn't gone blue. This wasn't the first time Petyr tied someone up, she could tell. Nor would this be the only time Petyr tied  _ her _ up. Of that, she was sure — toying with him was just proving it to herself.

           “You won't be needing these,” he said, snaking fingers beneath her ass and tugging her panties free. They were wet (a fact that was true more often than not when Sansa found herself alone with Petyr), and slid down onto the tangle of scarves at her feet. 

           He stood, moving beside her and pulling her hair free of the simple bun. Petyr’s fingers combed through her thick curls, over and over, with a slowness that said they had all afternoon. She closed her eyes, lolling her head to the whims of his ministrations. Sansa relished the way his fingers roamed through her hair. It was the second thing he played with the most, just behind her cunt. 

           “Look in the mirror, Sansa.” He jerked her hair slightly, forcing her eyes open. 

           The afternoon light fell through curtains in undulating slivers, highlightinging her legs. It wasn't a random bit of the wall where Petyr set up the chair and mirror, she realized. Her hair caught the light, too, haloing her entrance that betrayed how turned on she became from being tied down. 

           “It's—"

           "—beautiful,” Petyr finished, pulling her hair towards one side of her neck and kissing the exposed skin. Another kiss, higher up on her neck. “ _ Especially  _ when it's like this.”

           Sansa knew he wanted her to look at herself, and she did. Despite his ministrations and his kisses, she could feel the weight of his reflection staring at her. It, along with the frank exposure, sent a tingle from her spine to between her open thighs. The scarves mercifully kept her in place. “Like how?”

           He pulled his mouth away a fraction from her skin, leaving her flesh tingling as his lips roaved up and up towards her ear. His words couldn’t hide his desire, no matter how hard Petyr tried. “Wet. And needy.” Petyr tugged her earlobe, hard enough to make Sansa gasp. “I love it when you're horny for me, sweetling.”

           His words were as heady as his actions. She wanted to pull his face down and kiss him properly. Sansa’s hands caught on the scarves. The silk — though soft — wasn’t shy about digging into her wrists.

           Petyr’s mouth smiled at her struggle. “My, my, Sansa. Who would have thought there would have been such the  _ minx _ hidden behind your coy smiles.” He wrapped her hair around his left hand, pulling Sansa’s head until the back of the chair dug into her neck. Sansa saw him: the darkness in his eyes, the upside-down tilt of his mouth. Petyr didn’t bother pretending that he wasn’t enjoying the view of her back arching back, propping her breasts up in the air. “For whom does this tight little body of yours get horny for?”

           Petyr yanked on her hair, enough that tears began pricking at the corners of her eyes. Sansa gasped at the pain. “Just you.”

           Bending forward, he slid his teeth down the length of her neck, stopping only where flesh met shirt. “Good.”

           Slowly, the pressure against her skull fell away as Petyr loosened his grip on her hair. Sansa didn’t move, unsure what he had in mind for her. It was always best to do as she was told when it came to the unhealthy but delicious combination of Petyr and sex.

           “Do you still think it's ugly sweetling?”

           She lifted her head enough to stare into the mirror, their reflections momentarily forgotten. Surely there was more wetness between her legs than the last she looked at herself. “I…”

           “How about now?”

           Petyr slid his free hand down her chest (not forgetting about her breasts along the way. A good tug on each of her nipples through her shirt until she cried out from the pain. Petyr rewarded her with a kiss each time). Her skirt was already bunching around her hips, and he didn’t need to do anything but slip his forefinger into her slick folds.

           Sansa gasped into Petyr’s mouth.

           Letting go of her lips (the ones on her face), Petyr motioned for her to pay attention to the mirror. She tried. Sansa had never seen it from this angle: the slow rhythm of Petyr’s hand in and out of her, nor the glimpses of her cunt spreading open at the much wanted intrusion. Petyr didn’t go faster or slower, nor did he change his tactic other than in and out. It was hypnotic. And fucking erotic.

           A voice at her ear: “I take it you  _ like _ seeing yourself getting off to me, hm?”

           Sansa was aware of the weight and heat of her uncle’s head beside her own. But she didn’t process the physical form of him, seeing only the hazy reflection of the two of them before her. There was a woman in that mirror: clothes askew, bright red hair pulled to the side with strands glowing in the shifting sunlight. Bound and unable to move, her desire spread out before all who cared to see; and damning evidence it was. Beside that poor woman: a demon, clad in black with eyes matching the darkness of a night sky void of stars. _He_ was both the audience of one to her unraveling, and the one forcing the woman into her heady bliss. He wore an exceptionally unkind smile.

           Sansa's body rocked against Petyr, urging him to do  _ more _ than what he was. Like always, he failed to listen to her as she writhed in that horrible agony of  _ not enough _ . Worse because she couldn’t lead her own orgasm; she was stuck, a slave to what Petyr wanted and how he was going to give it to her.

_ Please —  _ the word bubbled up her throat. This time, Sansa had the sense not to let it loose. The moans, however, had free reign past her lips. 

           Petyr heard her thoughts regardless. Air brushed against her aching cunt as his hand departed with a wet  _ slick.  _ Sansa’s body pushed forward against the restraints, following his leaving hand, hoping to pull it back into her. The scarves held her back. He wouldn't give her that satisfaction, not for a while. Petyr instead trailed errant lines along her thighs, smearing the damning evidence of her desire. It glittered in the sun: a shining trail towards a cunt that was pinker and wetter than before. 

           Sansa closed her legs — as if suddenly struck by  _ modesty _ — remembering she couldn’t, not with the scarves also tied around her ankles. Nor could she wriggle her skirt back down and hide what she could of her lust.

           It was there for all to see. 

           She supposed it was a blessing she wasn't sat in front of an open window. 

           “What is it?” Petyr asked. His head was still beside hers. The heady scent of her come filled the air between them, yet mixed were the telltale strands of the mints he always sucked. “Are you hurt?”

           “No, it’s — I — ...don’t know,” Sansa admitted. She loosened the tension in her legs, letting them fall against the arms in silent defeat. She  _ did  _ know, but she didn't know if she could tell Petyr. 

           The hand in her hair unwrapped itself from thick auburn. It moved down the curve of the chair towards her left arm. “I can untie you—"

           “No!” Petyr's hand froze. 

           “No,” Sansa repeated, quieter. She tucked her chin against her neck. 

           Weight nudged the top of her head. It was Petyr, or the heaviness of his gaze. Sansa didn't look because she knew what she would see. The invisible weight pressed insistently. 

           She peeked: saw Petyr staring at her reflection. His hands and his body weren't moving until Sansa forced herself to look at the pink cheeks and awry hair of her own self. Petyr (by contrast) looked the same as he had downstairs. The demon that had been there before hid in the shadows of their other selves. 

           “I…” 

           “Yes, sweetling?” There was worry — genuine worry — and Sansa felt ashamed. 

           Her voice fell, quiet enough that only Petyr could hear (and not the scarce picture frames of a  _ supposed loving family  _ scattered about the bedroom). “I  _ really _ like it.”

           The spreading grin across Petyr’s lips was nothing short of the devil’s that possessed him before. 

           “Oh?” he intoned, once again with innocent curiosity. The finger that had been inside her moments ago returned, circling the entrance of her cunt with deliberately slow strokes. Sansa bit back against the moan rising up and filling her mouth. Petyr egged it on,  _ just missed _ flicking over her clit with each pass. “Perhaps I was wrong…”

           It was bait, she knew, but Sansa’s body was beginning to take over rationality the longer Petyr denied her cunt the pressure it needed. Her legs were tense from fighting the urge to follow his finger with her hips. It was a losing battle. “What’s...wrong…?”

Around and around and around, and never once straying close enough for Sansa to jerk her hips and guide his finger home. Petyr nipped her jaw with a quiet  _ tsk _ . “Oh,  _ Sansa _ . To think I once thought you  _ innocent… _ ”            

           Two fingers slid into her cunt, lodging themselves firmly before Sansa’s relived moan finished sliding through the air. In the ringing silence that followed, her sharp scent intensified. There was emptiness behind her back, her body arching into the fullness in her cunt. Neither of them moved for several long heartbeats.

           She moved first. Rolling around his fingers, sighing as they brushed against her aching clit.

           “Hmm, you like that, don't you sweetling?” 

           It was pretty fucking obvious she did. 

           Petyr (the master of agony) pumped his fingers in and out of her cunt with the same deliberate slowness that Sansa hated. “You're so needy like this, sweetling, tied down with no orgasm in sight.”

           Sansa moaned: in pleasure, as his fingers seated themselves back inside her; and in frustration, as the futility of her restraints hit her. She was  _ completely  _ at Petyr's mercy. 

           He only chuckled at her predicament. Thank the gods he wasn't completely unmerciful (yet), moving his hand faster and faster inside her. His other hand slid beneath her shirt, sliding her cups off her breasts for easy access to torment her nipples. Kneading the hard nub before pulling it away from her body. Sansa had no choice other than follow his hand. Just as her toes curled in  _ no more _ , Petyr released her, and Sansa hissed. 

           Over and over again, above and below, Petyr worked her body like he knew it better than Sansa did. She writhed beneath his touches, the silk around her ankles and wrists doing exactly what Petyr wanted. She thought they might leave angry circles on her skin. Then she thought Petyr might like that, and fought harder against the silk. 

           Sansa cried at the pain and the pleasure of it all. It was an exquisite sort of torture only Petyr could show her. 

           And she fucking loved it. 

           It wasn't long before her orgasm was in sight, despite Petyr's warning. Her body was in complete control now, it's only aim release. Hips moved in tune with one hand and chest moved beneath the other. Sansa pulled as hard as she could against the scarves, loving that extra bit of pain that amplified the beating need between her thighs. Beneath her heavy breaths she thought she heard Petyr laugh. 

           The world faded white as her orgasm shot through her. White shot through the darkness behind her eyelids. Petyr generously brought his hand from toying with nipple instead to her clit. She couldn’t stop her hips: the new pressure intensified her release. Sansa felt and heard two hammering heartbeats. Waves of pleasure pumped through her veins, her bones, flooding her entire body with the sweet numbness of release. 

           Slowly her hips rocked against Petyr’s fingers, and then stopped moving entirely, too exhausted to do more than exist. Her breathing slowed, and allegedly her heart did too. When the cloudiness faded from her mind, Sansa was first aware how limply she sat against the chair, then how cold the air against her cunt was. She didn't have to look into the mirror to see how wet her release was. 

           She couldn't, anyways. Not with the mop of greying black hair nestled between her thighs. Petyr nipped up one thigh, leaving sure traces of his teeth on her skin. Like he was waiting. For Sansa’s body to free her from the intoxicating lull after an orgasm. She wanted nothing more than to fall asleep (the fact that she was tied to a chair meant nothing compared to how heavy her eyelids were).

           Resting his check against the inside of her thigh, Petyr stared up at her. The darkness didn't abide in his eyes. In fact, they managed to grow darker than black, fueled both by the accomplishment of getting Sansa off, and the equally intoxicating scent of her release. Sansa tried to figure out if he licked her clean: a lot happened in those last seconds (or minutes?). She blinked in surprise when she remembered where they were. Sun still shifted along their bodies: so not  _ hours _ at least.

           “And what do you think, now?” Petyr eventually asked. He wasn’t willing to give up the facade of being a teacher yet. Sansa was sure it would be gone before her next orgasm.

           “I think—" she breathed in deeply. It was misleading how  _ tired _ she got after sex. Running ten miles was definitely less exhausting than the wicked mind of her uncle. "—you were right. Though…” 

           Petyr’s eyebrow rose.

           “...though I won’t say  _ No _ if you need to remind me again.”

           The edge of Petyr’s smile rose, too. “Oh?”

           Sansa nodded. She moved to brush his hair off from his forehead, and remembered (again) that she was bound. For all Sansa knew Petyr planned to keep her tied up here for the rest of her life.

           That wasn’t to say that was a  _ bad _ idea.

           “How are your wrists, sweetling?” Petyr reached up with one hand and rubbed her skin beneath the silk. It didn’t feel raw, but she still winced at his touch.

           “I’m okay.”

           “Good.” He maneuvered his hand around to rub at her other wrist. Then showed the same careful attention to her ankles, frowning when one scarf was half untied. “I suppose I’ll need to clean up this  _ mess _ you’ve made, hm?” he asked (not to her particularly) as he worked the scarf tight. 

           Sansa bit back a giggle. He always griped whenever she left food on her plate, and this wasn’t entirely different. Though Sansa wasn’t sure how often she would be scolded in front of her parents about not licking up all of the come from her uncle’s cock after all the tormenting she put him through. “If you insist.”

           “It would be my pleasure.” She caught the blur of a smirk before his face was buried between her thighs.

           He wasn’t aiming to bring her to another release, but Sansa couldn’t fight her body responding to Petyr’s tongue. Meticulously he lapped up her release, making sure the inside of her cunt was clean, too. Of that he was extra thorough. Petyr finished with a quick nip to her clit, relishing in the squeal Sansa let out.

           “A successful lesson, then?”

           “I’d say so, yes,” Sansa giggled.

           Petyr smiled at that. He looked almost boyish, grinning at her between her legs, as though they had all the time in the world and the world consisted of nothing more than her and him. They didn’t, though. Lysa was due back from Robert’s appointment soon.

           Checking his watch, Sansa waited as Petyr did the mental math of  _ time needed to fuck my niece _ divided by  _ time to make sure the house doesn’t show signs that I fucked my niece _ . It must have been a good number. “Perhaps another lesson is in order, hm? I’d hate to let this opportunity go to waste…” he fingered the scarves around her ankles for emphasis.

           Sansa was nervous. But excited. And definitely turned on. “Not like I’m going anywhere…”

           “No, you’re not.” Petyr smiled — and there it was, the wickedness that had drawn her towards him all those days ago. 

           He was a flash, shooting up and rounding the chair. Sansa’s stomach lurched as Petyr managed to drag it (and her) across the floor. Instinct told her to hold on, but she was part of the chair, so there was little she could do.

           “Watch your head.” It was all the warning he gave before yanking down the back of the chair. Sansa cried out — she was falling! she was going to split her head against the wood! — but the fall stopped just as it began. 

           Her view was angled. Petyr had tilted the chair so it was leaning against the edge of the bed. Sansa couldn’t touch the floor (which was one of the few things she  _ could _ do tied up like this). Half of her head rested on the wood back of the chair, and the other half on the mattress.

           “Now,” Petyr began, and in the space between his words Sansa heard the rush of his zipper being undone. The unsteady fear of her position battled against the growing desire at whatever wild scheme he was planning. “On to your next lesson…”

           The bed groaned beneath Petyr’s weight, and Sansa tilted her head back to watch him clamber onto it. His cock was in one hand, hard and aching. Petyr brushed Sansa’s bangs from her forehead, leaning in for a kiss on exposed skin. He traveled down (or up?) her face, lingering against her lips.

           Too quickly his mouth was replaced by the smooth head of his cock. Sansa stared at the upside-down shape of her uncle (and her lover) and kissed it, too.

           “Don't you know, sweetling,” Petyr began, leaning dangerously forward on the edge of the bed. His free hand tugged her skirt higher up her waist, leaving nothing to hide her cunt from him. Carefully, he nipped her hip bone, grazing teeth against skin. It was less like he was speaking than the words were falling into her skin and up to her mind with the lilting tone she'd come to know (and love). Unhurried, Petyr left a trail of kisses up and up towards where she found she was already growing wet. “You've got the prettiest little cunt in all the seven kingdoms.”

           He kissed that pretty little cunt again, just to make sure she knew. 


End file.
